


I can't go home but I want you

by destinationtoast



Category: Hearts Beat Loud (2018)
Genre: Canon Character of Color, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Canon Queer Character of Color, College, F/F, Pining, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 06:31:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19824478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinationtoast/pseuds/destinationtoast
Summary: LA is further from New York than Sam could possibly have imagined.  The unreal blue sky that stretches from horizon to horizon haunts her with its constant huge perfection.I think I accidentally transported to a different dimension,she texts Rose.Did you know the ocean is colder here than in New York?





	I can't go home but I want you

**Author's Note:**

> This charming movie (and relationship) lodged itself firmly in my brain, and I wanted to follow up and see what happened to Sam (and to Sam & Rose) after.
> 
> This is the first thing I've written in a long time, and it was an attempt to finish something without overthinking it. Feel free to point out typos, etc.

In her first quarter at college, Sam has her first roommate, her first B since middle school, her first enjoyable job, her first phone call to dad from more than a hundred miles away, her first solo performance, her first drunken hookup. She doesn’t have her first major breakup, because she and Rose took care of that before she left for UCLA. 

They hadn’t fought; they’d just agreed like mature young women headed off in very different directions that it didn’t make sense to try to be together. That it would be unfair of them to expect one another to. They’d agreed to break up, and to just stay in touch as friends. They’d cried in each other’s arms, and then they’d had achingly sweet sex, slow, intense, looking into one another’s eyes -- though Sam had to look away more than once to avoid further tears. Sam had lain awake afterward with her not-girlfriend sleeping in her arms, holding on to the moment as long as she could. 

* * *

LA is further from New York than Sam could possibly have imagined. The unreal blue sky that stretches from horizon to horizon haunts her with its constant huge perfection. 

At the end of her first week, she finds herself standing at the marina, where her RAs have dragged them all to the Marina Aquatic Center -- even Sam, who would rather be studying. It turns out to be a useful disruption to the reality show that is dorm life. (Three fights already with her obnoxious roommate, ranging from which illegal substances are appropriate to store in the mini-fridge to how many times it’s okay to hit snooze.) There is laughter and ice cream and good natured splashing. By the end of the day, Sam is managing not to openly roll her eyes even when Cecily cheerfully declares that she’s dropping down to 12 units this term, because freshman year is for partying. 

* * *

_I think I accidentally transported to a different dimension,_ she texts Rose. _Did you know the ocean is colder here than in New York?_

_what?? weird!_

_I took a surfing class today._

_!!!_  
_california has already devoured the sam i once knew_  
_how was it?_

_Harder than riding a bike. And my teacher wasn’t nearly as fun._

_< 3_

* * *

Sam comes to regret having pushed herself quite so far in the opposite direction of Cecily. 20 units turns out to be just a little more ambitious than she can handle. But unlike her roommate with her attorney parents, Sam can’t afford not to pack in as many classes as possible per quarter. She’s paying the same tuition no matter how many she takes, so she’s hoping she can finish a few terms early. 

Her work study job takes away from her time to do homework or look for research jobs. But it’s the only way she can afford her textbooks -- or being here in the first place. On the plus side, being the sound tech at the student union means attending lots of shows, plus experience with new sound equipment. 

* * *

_how r u?_

_I got a B on my chem test._

_aww babe_  
_is this your first one ever?_  
_i hear chem is rly tough_

_It’s going to be hard to pull my grades up enough for med school._

_im sure its going to be okay_  
_you’re only been there a few weeks_

_Gotta go to work now._

* * *

Her dad’s excited when she tells him about her sound tech position. “That’s great, Sam! So when are you going to get up on stage?” 

“Dad.” She rolls her eyes but doesn’t answer further. She gives him a rundown of the bands who are on the schedule soon. 

She’s surprised by how genuinely happy he seems when he talks about his job. “It’s not as good as the record store, of course,” he says. But there’s a relaxed tone to his voice that might be because the bar isn’t his baby, and he just isn’t as invested -- or might be because the bar actually makes money. 

“And Grandma?” she asks. “How’s she doing?” 

“Still grumbling about losing her rent control, even though she’s paying nothing to live here,” he says. “But I haven’t had to bail her out yet, so there’s that.” 

Sam feels a seedling stirring beneath the permafrost she’s carried since she was eleven -- not hope, exactly, but maybe a precursor. Eleven was when she first peeked at her father’s accounting books and realized that her father’s savings account was a sieve, with everything flowing into the store. That’s when she started preparing to take care of him. She added Grandma to her responsibilities several years later, once her confusion started. 

The fact that neither of them are having any problems right now and don’t seem to need her increases the sense that she’s in a different world now. 

She continues to check in on her father almost daily over text or facetime, even so. And she sends him songs for feedback -- because in spite of everything else, she’s still finding time to write music. Sometimes she’ll sit up in the middle of the night and jot down a lyric in her notebook (to the mumbled objections of Cecily). Sometimes she’ll quickly scribble something in the margins of her class notes to get it out of her head so it stops distracting her. More often, she’ll write during the slow times at work. And her dad always has helpful thoughts any time she gets stuck (well, usually -- except when he detours into some ridiculous riff: “Jammy Sammy going to a juicy UC to study medicine, brilliant like Edison --” “Dad, _stop._ ”) 

* * *

_hows frank?_

_Good. Like really, actually, for the first time, good?? I think._

_omg_  
_that makes me so happy!!!!!_

_Me too._

* * *

With her dad’s continued encouragement (or harassment, depending how generous Sam is feeling), Sam starts playing occasional open mics. She gets hired to play at a coffee house just off campus one Saturday night -- a paid gig, though not paid much. It goes well, really well, and Sam realizes that she’s not just going to be able to shut off this performing thing while she studies. 

During her second gig, a cute girl catches Sam’s eye early on. And then keeps on catching her eye. By the end of the night, Sam’s singing just to her, and the air between them is vibrating with expectation. They end up drinking Cecily’s beers from the mini-fridge and starting to kiss heatedly on Sam’s bed. It ends when Maia pauses while taking Sam’s shirt off to examine the anatomically correct heart pendant around Sam’s neck. Sam jumps back abruptly and pulls her shirt back down. 

“Sorry,” she says with a sigh. “I can’t do this.” 

Maia’s brow furrows. “Um. All right?” She makes it a question. When Sam doesn’t immediately answer, her sighs. “You’re seeing someone already.” 

Sam runs a hand through her hair. “Not really. But I guess I’m still hung up her. I’m sorry.” 

“High school sweetheart?” Maia grimaces. “This is why I try never to date frosh.” 

“Sorry,” Sam repeats as Maia gathers her things, feeling guilty on multiple fronts at once, which isn’t fair because she’s not even dating anyone. Maia doesn’t respond, shoving past Cecily who arrives just as Maia leaves. 

Cecily, takes in the rumpled state of Sam and her bedclothes, as well as the crumpled beer cans. “Oops, I, uh, didn’t know you were busy --” 

“It’s fine,” says Sam, her head in her hands, really not wanting to talk just now. “I’m really not.” 

She expects a lecture from Cecily about taking her beer. Instead, her roommate comes over and gives Sam a hug. “I’m sorry about whatever just happened. You’re awesome, though, and you’re going to get so many girls. And right now, I’m gonna get you some water and aspirin, and you’ll feel much better tomorrow.” 

Sam, surprised, hugs her back. Maybe her roommate is only, like, 80% obnoxious. 

Despite her weariness, and the alcohol still pulsing warmly through her, Sam lies awake for a long time that night. She doesn’t really want so many girls. 

She doesn’t want _any_ girls. 

Or, at least. She doesn’t have time for any -- ill-advised hookups aside. 

There’s one she wants, still. 

When she lets herself. 

But she’s way over there, in the other dimension. 

It _hurts_ to be so far away. And there’s nothing to be done about that. 

* * *

_whats been going on with you lately_  
_west coast girl?_

_Not much._

* * *

Talking to Rose depresses Sam. Rose is an unsolvable problem. Sam misses her desperately, but talking doesn’t improve that. 

Not talking to Rose depresses Sam. Sam doesn’t want to lose the connection they had. It was so sweet, so real. 

Either way, Sam thinks too much about Rose. And she feels guilty, because she should be focusing on her studies. Or if not her studies, her music. She considers music her one justifiable outlet besides studying, especially now that she’s working as a sound tech and doing the occasional paid gig. 

Sam starts trying to pour herself into her music instead, every time she wants to wallow about Rose. Cecily teases her gently the first time that Sam comes home one Saturday morning wearing the same clothes she did the night before, and is clearly disappointed to learn that Sam’s alleged night of passion was spent alone and sober in one of the music rooms, composing. 

It helps a little, over time. 

* * *

_i ate a strawberry whoopie pie today in your honor_  
_i don’t even like them really_

* * *

Sam goes to see an art show on campus, an exhibition of some undergraduate work. Some of it is startlingly good. Sam wants to talk to Rose about it, to send her a few photos and mull over with her what makes the pieces effective. But she realizes she has four texts from Rose she’s never responded to. 

She’s sure her silence is hurting Rose, but it’s inevitable that they will stop talking eventually. Maybe it’s better to get it over with and stop poking at the wound. 

* * *

Sam plans to stay on campus over winter break. Much though she misses her family, she figures that her best shot at landing a biology research assistant position as a frosh is to offer to work through the holidays, keeping experiments going when everyone else has left. (Besides, it will give her more space to recover from Rose.) She makes her availability clear during her interview. 

The professor hires her. She also tells Sam, “Go home. There will be plenty of time for you to stretch yourself past all reasonable bounds later. Medical schools won’t care if you missed Christmas with your family your freshman year -- but you will.” 

Sam agrees to start in January, feeling a complicated swirl that's more relief than regret. 

* * *

Home is wonderful. Home is family and good food and proper cold winter weather and love and music. 

On her third day back, Sam’s father gets her to jam with him. 

On her fourth day back, he finishes coaxing out of her all of the songs that she’s been writing -- even the ones that were too fragmented or too personal to have sent him while she was working on them. 

He sits there quietly, looking at her for a long time. “You need to talk to her.” 

Nobody has mentioned Rose since she’s come home. Sam had been hoping that would continue. “Dad --” 

“Sam. You’ve written her a double album.” 

Sam blushes. She didn’t think most of the songs were that transparent. She was apparently wrong. “I can’t, Dad.” 

“Why not?” 

Sam rolls her eyes. “It’s complicated.” 

He nods, mock seriously. “Yes, I”m sure it’s nothing that I could possibly comprehend or relate to, with my very limited experience of human relationships and emotions.” 

“Dad.” She tries for a long moment to stare him down before looking away. “It doesn’t make sense. She’s here, I’m there. And I don’t have time for a relationship.” 

“Well, you had time to write her a hell of a lot of music. Good music.” Sam just crosses her arms. “Look, I’m not saying you should get back together with her. But don’t you think she deserves to hear this?” 

“I just spent the quarter trying to get over her, and you want me to talk to her again?” 

He snorts. “Yeah, you’re over her, all right. Look, before I met your mother, I had this long distance thing going with --” 

Sam throws up her arms, not wanting to hear about it. “All right, all right! I’ll talk to her. Tomorrow. Are we going to keep working on this song, or what?” 

* * *

Sam sits on the floor, staring up at Rose, who sits on her bed. Rose looks amazing. So amazing that Sam forgets to do anything but gaze up at her for a long moment. Finally, Rose says, “So, are you going to play me this song of yours?” 

_I’m sorry,_ Sam had texted. _I know I’ve been a jerk. Can I come play you something?_

Sam’s still not sure why Rose said okay in response, after a month and a half of being ignored, but she’s grateful. 

Sam hits play on the stereo and closes her eyes. The first track is the most naked in its meaning, and the least polished; it makes Sam restless to listen to, because she wants it to be better than it is. But it’s the right place to start -- an apology. Sam closes her eyes and chews a hang nail while it plays. 

_Blue skies forever_  
_I am rain_  
_What if I never_  
_Hold you again_

_Green grass and lemonade_  
_I am gray_  
_Warm sun, I am shade_  
_I traded you away_

_I can't go home but I want to_  
_I can't go home but I want you_

_I can't go home but I want to_  
_I can't go home but I want you_

_Time was a jailer_  
_I waited to be free_  
_Liberty is failure_  
_I want back you and me_

_I can't go home but I want to_  
_I can't go home but I want you_

_I can't go home but I need to_  
_You are my home and I need you_

Sam opens her eyes. Rose is crying. “Oh, babe,” Sam says, hating herself for having done this to her. “I’m sorry.” Sam wants to hug her, but doesn’t feel like she has the right. 

“When did you write that?” Rose asks, sniffling into a tissue. 

“Um, on and off, mostly over the past month I guess,” Sam says. “I also wrote you fourteen more.” 

_“What?!”_ Rose falls onto the bed, face half buried in a pillow. Sam can’t quite tell if she’s laughing a bit as well as crying. “You are such an idiot. Couldn’t you have, you know, sent them to me?” 

Sam bites her lip guiltily. “I, yeah. I was just -- I was trying to figure out how to let you go. I thought it would be easier, eventually. For us both.” 

Rose just looks at her sadly, and Sam feels even worse. “I know. I know you wanted to break up, and I was trying to give you space, but when you got so terse and then stopped writing back, without ever saying anything… you hurt me. I was really angry at you.” 

“I was so dumb. And it didn’t even work. I didn’t stop thinking about you at all.” 

Rose sighs, sits up, and wipes her eyes. She pats the bed next to her. “C’mere.” Sam does, and Rose pulls her into a long hug. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispers again into her ear. “And I’m scared. I still don’t know how to make this work, and I don’t want to hurt you again.” And now Sam is crying. 

“I know, I know,” Rose murmurs back, rocking her gently. Sam feels that it’s really unfair that Rose has to comfort her when she’s the one who was the jerk, but she’s not about to stop her. 

Eventually. Rose pulls away, and wipes the tears from under Sam’s eyes. “Promise me you won’t just stop talking to me again. Even if you meet someone else, even if you stop feeling the same way about me, promise me you’ll tell me what’s happening. Not knowing what was happening was the worst part.” 

“I promise,” she says thickly. 

“Good.” Rose leans in and kisses Sam once, gently. “I don’t know how to do this, either. And I don’t want to get in the way of your life out there -- or have you get in the way of mine, for that matter.” Sam nods. “But … I don’t think either of us wants to just stop being in each other’s lives, somehow?” 

“No.” The moment she'd seen Rose again -- the moment she'd told her dad she would see Rose again -- she'd abandoned that plan. 

“Okay. Then I guess we’ll have to figure it out together.” 

“As girlfriends?” Sam asks, still wary of overpromising and then disappointing Rose again. And uncertain if Rose will take her back. 

Rose shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe we can at least be friends who love each other, and be there for each other as much as life allows. And keep figuring it out from there.” 

“Yeah. That sounds good. Why didn’t we just do that in the first place?” 

Rose smiles wistfully. “Because you were a pre-med student excited about leaving for a whole new existence, with no time for romance, or music, or anything from your old life tying you down.” 

Sam grimaces. “Oh yeah. I definitely knew what I was talking about.” 

“Well, you’re allowed to make that kind of mistake. Once.” Rose smiles bigger, dimpling adorably. “And now I want to hear all about what your new life has been like, since you really haven’t been telling me much.” 

“Sure,” Sam nods. “Just let me do this first.” She leans in for a kiss, and this one is heated, full of the longing she’s poured into dozens of nights writing and recording songs. Rose’s breath hitches, and she pulls Sam down to the bed. It’s a while before either of them speaks again. 

Afterward, Sam holds her not-quite-girlfriend in her arms. She feels less certainty about what will happen next than the last time they were together, but she’s happier. And for right now, she is home. 

**Author's Note:**

> I felt like I needed to write a song for Sam in order for her to communicate, but Sam's a songwriter, and I'm not. I tried to make it roughly scan to some of her canonical works. I hope despite my limitations, it sufficed for the story. :)


End file.
